Chronicle & Humour : Bernard in Cambodia, Gym Day, Chapter One (and Maybe Only)
Sophea dared him. Bernard said yes, somewhere between two sips of beer. Nobody at the table believed he'd actually show up — least of all in flip-flops.
Sophea is tired of hearing him complain about his back. "Go to the gym, Bernard. Just once. See what happens." The others at the table are already laughing. They've known Bernard for eight years.
Bernard shows up the next day. Hawaiian shirt, red palm trees on turquoise. On his feet, flip-flops. "Couldn't find my trainers," he tells the front desk. Nobody has ever seen them.
Outside, it was 34 degrees. Inside, that's about to change.
The gym is air-conditioned to the max, eighteen degrees, borderline arctic. Bernard doesn't notice.
He sets his Angkor Beer on the treadmill console, twenty centimetres from the speed display. The trainer raises an eyebrow. Bernard doesn't see it — he's hunting for the remote to the giant TV screen.
A young attendant walks over, polite but firm. "Sir, alcohol isn't allowed in the workout room. House rules." Bernard shrugs. "It's light beer. Practically water." The attendant points at the "Water Only" sign that's been on the wall since opening day.
It escalates fast. Bernard repeats that he's been a member for eight years, that nobody's ever said a word, that "it's one small Angkor, not the end of the world." The attendant, who can't be older than twenty-five, holds his ground: the rules are the same for everyone. Two members slow down on their machines to catch the show.
Sophea steps in before it goes any further. She grabs the bottle, sets it on the changing-room counter, and steers Bernard toward the treadmill. Bernard mutters something about the country getting "too strict these days," but he moves. The bottle, for its part, doesn't stay on that counter for long.
He finds the remote before he finds a single machine. TV5 Monde, full volume, last night's 8 o'clock news. A guy on the next bike asks if he can put the music video back on. Bernard says no, it's news time, never mind that the news is twelve hours old.
First stop: the bench press. Bernard loads the bar like he's twenty years younger. Three reps, a grunt loud enough for the whole room to hear, and the bar drops back too fast. Sophea winces from the next mat over.
He narrates every move out loud. "This one's for the chest. This one's for the back." Nobody asked. The trainer starts quietly drifting the other way every time he spots him.
Between machines, he quietly retrieves the bottle from the changing room and tucks it behind a dumbbell, within easy reach. The attendant doesn't notice. Sophea does, but she's stopped fighting it.
On the rowing machine, he pulls too hard, too early. Forty seconds in, he stops, red-faced, one hand on his chest, the other reaching for the beer. "This rower's not calibrated right," he announces, loud enough for the changing room to hear.
At the leg press, he loads the full stack without thinking twice. The machine creaks. So does Bernard. A staff member walks over to check nothing's broken — the machine, or Bernard.
The trainer finally steps in, politely. "Sir, maybe start a bit lighter? And maybe closed shoes, next time?" Bernard nods, takes a sip of beer, and reloads the machine at exactly the same weight.
In flip-flops, he slips twice on the treadmill belt. Nobody gets hurt, except his pride, which never fully recovers.
Sophea gives up. She heads back to her mat, leaves Bernard to his machines, his shirt, and TV5 Monde. At the gym bar, someone asks if he comes here often. "First time," Bernard says. "Probably the last."
He folds his towel, keeps the shirt on, and walks out into the Phnom Penh heat. Two hundred metres down the road, he stops at the first restaurant he finds and orders a double beef burger, extra fries. "After an effort like that, I've earned it," he tells the waiter. Ten minutes on the bike, by the clock. Nobody at the table corrects the math.
Bernard is already on the fries, one leg still faintly trembling under the table.
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